


the soul of a compass needle

by icicaille



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25345870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille/pseuds/icicaille
Summary: In 1849, one evening when the sky melted blue in the gloaming, Francis found it. He half-suspected it was a mirage—some kind of delusion brought on by debility—until he removed his mittens and pressed his fingertips to the smooth stones. The places where they kissed burned his skin.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 31
Kudos: 73
Collections: Fingerbang #3





	the soul of a compass needle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fingerbang challenge; prompt: "magnetism."
> 
> I don't know! Suffer with me, I guess.

It was late 1848, by Francis’ accounting, when he thought to seek solace with one who had known him best. The calculus of one hundred and twenty-eight lives lost was immeasurable, and he was near-insensate with grief. He wandered for days in search of the place, heedless of warnings that he ought to wait for spring. The sun sank lower and lower, until finally it was entombed below the horizon and only faint flecks of starlight guided his steps. Still Francis could not find it. He thought, perhaps, that he had muddled the coordinates. As snow began to fall, he turned back toward the camp that had become home, despairing.

In 1849, one evening when the sky melted blue in the gloaming, Francis found it. He half-suspected it was a mirage—some kind of delusion brought on by debility—until he removed his mittens and pressed his fingertips to the smooth stones. The places where they kissed burned his skin. His mouth made the shape of a name as he knelt before the mound, but he could not give it breath or air. He hardly stirred as his mouth made the same hollow shape again, twice, a hundred times. Even when his knees had grown ripe with bruising, and his hands and ears were numb with cold, Francis could not speak the words. After a while, he nodded perfunctorily at the stones—not a farewell, he knew, merely a brief leave-taking—and retreated, fingering the little journal in his pocket. He had brought it to take a proper reading of the route, but no reading was needed. Once found, the place could not be forgotten.

In 1850, Francis returned to stand before the stones. He had spent hours in the camp rehearsing what he might say. No name prefaced his speech. It made things easier, strangely, for the name was an anchor that plummeted far too quickly to sea bottom. Loosed from that weight, Francis’ thoughts burst forth. He spoke of vanity, of pride, of contrition, of a shame so mighty it had burrowed deep into his marrow. He spoke, too, of brotherhood, of warm hands on a fever-hot throat, of the vagaries of a man’s heart. They were wounds that should have been aired long ago.

In 1856, limping in on an ice-splintered ankle, Francis found that the stream of words had dried up. Instead, he permitted himself to speak the name, which had become so hallowed as of late he dared not even turn it over in his mind. His mouth was dry and rusted and rent the syllable into two spiky fragments, and he regretted the utterance at once. What compelled him to return here? It was a kind of magnetism, he supposed, drawing his body back even when his soul quailed with sorrow.

Some years later, long after Francis had ceased to count them, he set off from camp once more, carrying only a knife, his furs, and three handfuls of dried meat. By now, the way was as familiar as any sea chart. He settled down to rest at the foot of the mound—a mercy after many miles in old, aching bones—and spread out the pelt beneath him. This time, he would not leave.


End file.
